


war dogs come home

by StripySock



Category: Boondock Saints (Movies)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Codependency, Established Relationship, Fighting Kink, Hurt/Comfort, Incest, M/M, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Treating injuries, Under-negotiated Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-11
Updated: 2020-05-11
Packaged: 2021-03-03 03:41:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24018421
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StripySock/pseuds/StripySock
Summary: "Come on," Murphy says, smile tilted nice and nasty, just the way Connor knows and loves. "Think you can take me?"
Relationships: Connor MacManus/Murphy MacManus
Comments: 13
Kudos: 34
Collections: Id Pro Quo 2020





	war dogs come home

**Author's Note:**

  * For [flowersforgraves](https://archiveofourown.org/users/flowersforgraves/gifts).



> I hope I grazed your id a little bit flowersforgraves, you had some excellent freeform tags although I sadly couldn't work the non con in!
> 
> Deep thanks to ictus for their beta.

When they were younger, much younger, before they knew how to say it in French and Spanish and Italian. Back when mostly they talked in a garbled hodgepodge of English and Russian and Gaelic, a freefall of indecipherable except to them words, they used to play a game in the dead of night. _When we are rich_ , Connor would begin - it was old enough and far back enough, that they'd considered money a necessity, and the dream of money an impossibility. _When we are rich_ , Murphy would follow up. _I will have a horse in the bedroom_.

 _A stupid dream_ , Connor would say, with the immeasurable wisdom granted by being one minute older. _Sure, a horse would shit everywhere_ , and Murphy would kick his shins, fall on him, saying it's not fair, you can't complain about the wishing game.

A world of imaginary riches, and even in their dreams they still shared a room. It's about the only thing that's come true. It's true at this point in time as well. They've been locked up for hours in a room so dark, Connor wouldn't be able to see his hand in front of his face, even if said hand hadn't been tied behind his back, between him and Murphy.

"I propose a ninth Beatitude," Murphy says, and there's almost no distance for the words to travel between his lips and Connor's ear, a little lick of sound against them, words as quiet as his breath.

Connor can feel the movement of Murphy's mouth, even if he can't see it, tips his head a little in answer in the blind darkness. "Blessed be the poor," he murmurs in mock call and response.

"Blessed be the peacemakers," Murphy chants back, automatic, words only a little bit soft and slurred. 

"Wrong order," Connor says, and a little tickle of memory catches him just right, under the ribs and through the heart, pumping through his blood. They're in the dark, telling beads under the bed, and Murphy's thigh is pressed against his own— and he's still getting it wrong. 

Back in the cell Connor’s smiling, and Murphy's warm against his back. "Tell me the ninth," he whispers, and Murphy's head turns until his cheek almost rests against Connor's, tiny shock of sensation, slow damp puff of his breath between them.

"Blessed be those who leave shards of glass on the floor."

Connor's fingers are numb and tingling from the lack of circulation, but he can feel Murphy's fingers working between them, wet with blood, can feel the slick slide of them. He braces himself, gives Murphy something to work against, tautens the ropes as best as he can, and resists the urge to brush his fingers against his brother's. He can feel the give as it happens, the way the ropes fall to pieces. 

"I can't believe that worked, that is some Rambo shit," Murphy says, and the shocked quality of his voice makes Connor want to laugh out loud, even in the quietness of the cell.

"Mother Mary comes through again," Connor replies, flexes his wrists until he can feel the blood rush back to them, working its way through his veins. Makes his way around again until they're side by side, thigh by thigh, and raises hands that still feel unreal—like they belong to someone else—to touch Murphy's face in the dark. He doesn't need light for this, can trace a face dearer than his own with his mind alone, touch just an aid to memory. Presses a finger against the tender flesh of Murphy's split lip and feels the familiar outrage that floods him still at the thought of being powerless to stop any harm that comes to him.

Murphy turns just a little into it, lips pulling back as he smiles, smooth enamel of his teeth against Connor's fingers now, and he resists the urge to press between them. Now is not the time, he knows that rationally. Murphy lunges and catches his thumb before he can withdraw and presses into the curve of his cheek instead. Worries it just a little, blunt dent and press of his mouth that's always wicked, and is practically indecent given the circumstances. 

"Soft fuck," Murphy says as he lets it go, brings his own cold hand up to curl around Connor's, and there's an edge of laughter there. Connor butts him in the side of the head with his own only to have Murphy elbow him in the ribs, and Connor retaliates with a more serious chop to the arm. The resultant scrap is brief, vicious but without real rancour, and conducted almost entirely silently, muffled grunts and stifled imprecations, blood flowing through their veins in earnest now—a pleasant human warmth shared, circulation free-flowing and red, until they sit against the wall, refreshed and ready for stage two of get the fuck out. 

"You know," Connor says, pats his pockets again with fingers that can feel again. "If you weren't such a little prick, I'd share this." There's a cigarette left in his squashed pack, and a lighter sitting close to it. He fumbles it out. If they're going to die at any point in the next hour, he's not letting the fucks take the last cig from his corpse.

"Fuck you," Murphy says, fingers already scrabbling towards him. Connor doesn't need his eyes to hear the sound of petty theft, and raises his elbow in warning. 

The tiny flare of light in the darkness is just enough to illuminate his fingers, but doesn't make a dent in the blackness around them. If he holds it up, he can just see the outline of Murphy's face, more shadow than flesh, sharp line of his jaw and the deepness of his eye sockets. Lights the cigarette and lets the lighter die. They might need it to get out of here. This bit is just rest and recuperation; Connor can feel his left knee unsteady and pained even stretched out in front of him, and the way Murphy's breath hitches speaks most solemnly to the idea of broken ribs. 

The first drag of the cigarette is sweeter than mother's milk, tiny ember of it cheering in the darkness, and he relinquishes it to Murphy's waiting hands with mild and passing regret. Back against the stone of the wall, he can feel the cold of it sinking in as it hadn't when they'd been back to back, tied together, and the shiver that crawls under his skin is hard to shake where it sits between his shoulder blades and spreads down his arms. The next second, Murphy's arm is round his shoulders, hand on his neck, colder than the wall but more capable of warmth. He's holding the cigarette away from Connor in his far hand, but appears to repent an instant later, bringings it back over, fumbling it with his fingers into Connor's mouth. 

"You'll bitch for however long we live if I smoke the last of it," Murphy says, in answer to nothing. 

Connor is warmed as always, not just by the heaviness of Murphy's arm around him or the impossible heat of his body, animated by too much spirit, but by the casual belief that however this ends it'll end together. "And that time may be measured in hours," he says.

"Nicotine-free hours at that," Murphy adds, plucking the cigarette back from Connor's mouth and finishing it in one great drag, the final flare of the end extinguished. Any other time it would be an act of declared war between them, but these are unusual circumstances.

Connor closes his eyes against the darkness of the cell, reorients where they're sitting, and starts the move towards the door. They've got things on their side that whoever is on the other side of that door doesn't expect them to have. Free hands. A little bit of light, and the Saint's notorious luck. Murphy's following him, but as a mirror image reversed, spreading out to the right as Connor diverges to the left, dragging fingers across the wall and kicking at the floor, searching for anything of use. When they converge at the outline of the door, they're no better off. There's just enough rope to serve as a garrotte, and that's one of them armed. Not nearly enough. Not against the five men who'd thrown them in here in the first place.

The door is flush and tight against the wall, and no movie star heroics are going to knock it down. They've deliberately been quiet up until this point—no point tipping the enemy off that the mice are awake and ready to play—and Connor debates sacrificing that advantage for using their boots against the door in an effort to open it. 

The choice, as it happens, is taken out of their hands with a deliberation that Connor can only attribute to the Lord watching over them, looking out for His right hand men. The door opens and one man comes in with a tray in his hands and a taunt on his lips, ready to kick a couple of rats when they're down and bound and he can be sure they can't bite back. Murphy catches the tray before it drops from the man's hands as Connor solves the problem neatly, fitting the rope around his neck and tightening it without mercy. Murphy gets a kick in for good measure, and they lay him quietly down in their place.

The reason for the complete darkness is evident at once. They're in the second backroom of a basement, and there's not a scrap of natural light to be had. Connor has his rope and Murphy has a tin tray now, and they both have a will to take these scumbags down. But Il Duce has taught them at least a little caution. In the depths of his mind, Connor finds himself resenting it. He's been half a whole for the entirety of his life, the introduction of a third throws off their symmetry, has deregulated their pattern. He's not used to it, not used to a person in between them, even if it's their father, and the very thought is heavy and disloyal. It weighs on him, but he can't deny it. They already knew how to kill; Il Duce has added method to the madness, taught them both to turn tail and run if the odds aren't good enough, introduced an element of caution into their dealings with the underworld, and Connor—Connor misses the old ways. Misses the purity of their mission, the clarity of the message they'd received. Misses knowing that if he turned to his right, his brother would look back, a perfect reflected image of their thoughts.

Il Duce would walk away from this and come back to burn it, he wouldn't take on at least another four men with nothing but a tray and a rope. 

Connor turns to Murphy and lifts his shoulders. Trusts him to know what he means.

Murphy comes closer, slings a rough hand around his neck, and the feel of it makes Connor hot inside under the chill of the cellar, molten to his stomach, makes him want to open his mouth and bite something. "Let's fucking take them," he whispers.

And Connor should say no. The only thing that comes out of his mouth though is _yes_. He's not only Il Duce's left hand man, he's Murphy's. And Murphy stands on his right hand for a reason.

It should be carnage, they should be cut down in a hail of bullets, but the luck of God prevails once again. There's a gun with a silencer lying abandoned on a table in the kitchen and while Murphy brains its owner with his tray, Connor pumps a bullet into him—and just like that, they're both armed, and it's easy from that point on. Connor doesn't know for sure if these men knew they had the Saints, but he recognises at least one of them, a goon with a dented in skull who used to carry plates at one of Papa Joe's places, a connection that nicely clears up the mystery of why they'd been yanked. He and Murphy stalk through the house, a hail mary of devastation, laying waste to the unsuspecting inhabitants. Catches one man taking a leak and in the interests of the crime scene techs who are going to have to swab this place, Connor waits until he's zipped himself back up before he shoots. There are small acts on the way to Heaven as well as big after all.

They case the house, quick and practised, shaking it down in case they've missed anyone. Murphy holds the bag and Connor collects a couple of weapons. Due to the nature of their work, they don't hold onto guns for long, and a replenishment of stocks is always welcome. Smecker had mentioned across a poker game how confused it could make a scene, finding an Italian mobsters piece at the scene of a Russian killing, and since then Murphy has gone out of his way to cause confusion from a pure disinterested love of mischief. The cash goes in as well; the Saints are the fire for blood money to be cleansed, and Connor feels no guilt about that. The neighbourhood must be an even bigger shithole than it looks because there's not a breath of disturbance on the street when they emerge into the cool evening dusk. 

"We should stay," Murphy says, a bit between his teeth, stubborn to the last. 

Connor doesn't need any mind reading powers to figure out why. If Papa Joe's heavies had grabbed them, undoubtedly the bigger fish are still on their way. Every small and big time criminal in Boston would pay good cash to have a pair of Saint's heads mounted on their walls, even if word of their exploits has not yet been broadcast to the bigger world as Il Duce has been hinting he intends to do. Murphy wants to stay, wants to blow their heads off one by one, a wide open trap.

Connor reaches out, grabs the back of his neck and tugs just a little. "C'mon," he says. His leg is aching now, sharp shooting pain from the knee, and he knows he's going to be black and blue from the kicking they'd received prior to their incarceration. He can see the way Murphy's favouring his right side, hand pressed to the painful wheeze in his chest. This is how they die, and he's not ready for that. Murphy's resistant for a second against his hand, and then slumps, suddenly, easily into Connor's touch. 

"Fuck it," Murphy says, tips back his head to the sky and shouts it out again. "Fuck it all." But after that, he comes willingly.

They hitch a ride from some taxi driver who’s stopped for them without being flagged, who glances at them in his mirror and looks away before he can catch their eyes then drives them into the warren of the city and refuses a fare. "You do good work lads," he says, as he drops them off. "God's work." Their validation comes from unlikely sources sometimes, Smecker on his knees in a confessional, a Boston taxi driver not charging, and Connor tips his head in acknowledgement, still makes sure not to be dropped off even close to where he wants to be. 

It's Murphy's hand around his arm steadying him now. They balance back and forth on this edge, and their equilibrium has been broken by their father.They've been thrown off their tracks, still struggling for their footing. So Connor's brought them back here, to their own place. The police have long since picked over it and left it for dead, tattered crime scene tape still swathing the doorway. It's probably the safest place in the city right now, and it has the added benefit that only they know where they are. Connor keeps a look out while Murphy empties his pocket for a coin to call and let Il Duce know that they're lying low. 

Back where they began, they sit knee to knee, not touching, just looking. Murphy's better than a mirror for this, head tilted at the same angle, so even though the world is crooked, the reflection of the only thing that matters makes sense. Connor can see his own thoughts written on his twin's face, can tell from the curl of a lip, the clench of his hands, that Murphy still thinks maybe they should have stayed. Knows that Murphy can see Connor's faith they made the right call. He sees Murphy lift his chin a little, an almost imperceptible nod and relaxes. Murphy gets it. There wasn't much in question, but they're twins not robots, they're strung along the same wire, but they don't always dance to the same tune. Silent vigil over, Connor limps to what serves as a medicine cabinet. It's also a food cabinet, and a booze cabinet, and a dozen other things besides, and it takes him a minute to sort through it.

"They broken?" he asks, nodding at Murphy's chest. 

Murphy shrugs in response. "Not badly," he says, "maybe just bruised. Tape me up and I'll be fine." He's playing the tough man of few words right now, borrowing from Connor's schtick, and Connor rewards him with a light cuff to the head before throwing the thick bandage on the bed, along with the alcohol and gauze. Being gentle is worse than being rough, draws out the pain, and Connor has no mind to do that, not today, not like this. He's patching up other people's handiwork, and it makes something inside him angry, like it always does. Since they were born, Murphy's been his to mark, and he's been Murphy's, every time it happens, some other fuck laying a hand on _his_ brother, he feels like he'd tear the world apart to take them down. Rarely knows what to do with that feeling, when he can't channel it instantly into destruction. He can see the bruises up and down Murphy's side, already discoloured and spreading, big as both his hands put together. He smooths around the edges where they meet unblemished skin. Murphy doesn't flinch, and he's looking down as well, as though fascinated at the sight. 

"Jesus, they must've had steel capped boots," Murphy says, pulling back an arm so he can see further. "Would you look Connor, the animals left a boot print. Hold off on the wrapping man, I need to take a shower or I'm not moving tomorrow."

It takes Connor's hand and a grunt of effort to get him to his feet, but he sheds his jeans without a problem, stalks towards the makeshift shower, and Connor's already fumbling off his own clothes. They're on top of the building, everything in this room is stolen, including the trickle of warm water, there's no way Murphy's getting it without sharing. There's barely enough water for half of one of them, let alone both of them together, and neither of them can fight dirty, not when Connor's knee could send him down, so they have to be careful. They both get a brief turn under the water, just enough to wet themselves, then it's hell for leather with the soap, before the water goes back on and they can wash it off. They're used to showers like this, but it doesn't stop Murphy, jostling his way under the sad little spray. Nor does it stop him from turning to Connor, hand curling easy around his wrist and bringing him in closer, or from opening his mouth and saying, "When we are rich, there'll be a shower as big as a room."

Connor laughs, gets water in his mouth and his face, scrubs himself as fast as he can so he can get his hands on Murphy, fingers skating over wet skin, bypassing bruises, tickle trail down his spine. "Always with the wishes," he says, but Murphy doesn't hear him or at least pretends he doesn't, rattle of the pipes loud and ominous, forced into doing work after too long without. It's been too long for a lot of things, Connor thinks. 

It's not that they always feel the same way, they don't. But there's a magnetism between them that's undeniable - Connor merely has to skate his fingers across Murphy's neck, tilt his fingers under his chin and push it back, and Murphy knows the difference instantly between that and Connor scrubbing soap off him. 

Murphy shuts off the shower with a twisting grind of metal, the water slowing to a pathetic trickle between them, and turns to Connor, light of battle in his eyes. _Like this_? he could say, or, _what about your leg_ , but he doesn't. 

It's sometimes easy between them, sometimes simple, when there's the cover of dark, and death sits heavy like a fear. They've done it like that before, just sweat and skin, and Murphy pushing into Connor, holding him from the inside, blanketed against the world. Sometimes that's what they need.

Most of the time, it's like this. There's something that aches in Connor, that sits close and still underneath his breastbone at the sight of the bruises on Murphy's skin. He can't fix them, these injuries he doesn't know. He opens his mouth and bares his teeth, and Murphy lifts an eyebrow and grabs for the towel that deserves the name. There's two of them, but one of them is the good towel, in the sense that it can be called a towel at all. Murphy seizes it and holds it out, like a grey rag to a bull. 

"Come on," he says, smile tilted nice and nasty, just the way Connor knows and loves. "Think you can take me?"

That bit is not as in question as it might seem, Connor knows. Sure Murphy's breathing nice and shallow thanks to a couple of cracked ribs, but Connor's knee could give out at any moment, and he's bruised himself, up and down his spine, arm doing a weird flex at the turn. There's always only ever been one answer though, whether it’s true. "Yeah."

From the outside, it must be ludicrous, but they always have been to everyone but themselves, and Connor's never cared. The only person whose opinion he gives a shit about is locked in the same lunacy as himself.

"Yeah," he says, again. The beautiful thing about having a twin, is that the outcome is sometimes in doubt. "I can fucking take you."

Murphy begins the scuffle, the exact same way he begins a game of backgammon. The most obvious and effective move first, four and two, and the pieces are on the board and moving, and he's barrelling towards Connor, hands twisting in the towel, whether to dry them for more grip or use it as a weapon, Connor has no idea and no intention of finding out. His knee buckles just a little bit and it provides the impetus to duck to the side and drive his elbow deep into the side where Murphy's ribs are not broken. 

Some sensible part of his mind thinks that he should have left this until after he'd taped them up, but it's lost in the fight almost instantly. If he'd waited until he'd fixed them up, until Murphy had got on his knees to bandage up Connor, then he wouldn't have had this, Murphy slippery and wet and alive pushing against him, banging his head down towards the floor, knee rising up to his face.

"You boys do more damage to each other than you do to the world," Il Duce had said when he'd seen them scrap for the first time, and Connor still can't think of him as father in anything other than the abstract. Doesn't want to think of him at all. 

He gets his fingers around Murphy's thigh and digs in with his fingernails, all is fair in fucking and war, and Murphy lets out a pained squawk. "Fucking shit," he yelps, pulls his leg away, and Connor senses his advantage, twists Murphy's leg to throw him just a little, trips him and rolls him onto the floor, where it doesn't matter that Connor's knee doesn't work like it should. He's got the advantage like this, always has done; Murphy does his work best in the upper stories, while Connor specialises in dragging the pig into the mud. It's the work of a second to pin Murphy to the floor, to drag himself up and over his body, until he can fix his hands around his throat, not too hard, just enough to let Murphy know that he's losing. 

Connor could live forever off the look in Murphy's eyes, the way he doesn't panic, sure in the knowledge that Connor won't do it. If he were anyone else, that look would drive Connor to tighten his grip, pure perversity of the soul and expectations, but Murphy has him pegged. Doesn't mean it's not fun, the way that Murphy thrashes underneath him, naked as the day he's born, hard and leaking against his stomach, and it's all one and the same to them. They've done this before as well, shared and swapped between them, and Connor knows what Murphy's feeling, the tightness, the constriction, the sense that all the world around him is falling away, until the only thing that matters, the only thing that's present is the hand on the throat. It satisfies something inside him to know that the only thing Murphy can see, the only thing he can think about is Connor. 

It comes easily to his hands to know when to tighten and when to let go, he's skilled at dealing death and at holding it back as well. Murphy's surging into life underneath him, throat opening up and gulping air, head tilted back, and it's just as fun to take his air another way, to fit themselves together mouth to mouth as well as hip to hip. Murphy's still breathing heavy, bites at his mouth, ragged gasps as he twists his fingers into Connor's skin to drag him nearer, ten little points of closeness to add to all the rest. Murphy's cock drags wet across Connor's hip, another kiss of sensation, and he's distracted, but not enough to not feel the movement and shift of muscle under Murphy's skin as he prepares to roll them. Connor tightens his legs around Murphy, digs a knee into his right flank, and a thumb into a particularly deep bruise, and Murphy subsides. He's probably already planning their rematch inside his head, but for now he's still, looking at Connor like he's waiting for the next move.

If they were in better shape, Connor would oblige. But if half the fun between them is the fight, the other half is the fuck, and if they keep fighting, then fucking is out of the question. He rests his hand on Murphy's sternum, fingers spreading just a little bit to the left, just enough that if Murphy surges up, he'll feel it. "You gonna lie there?" he half-taunts.

"Fuck you," Murphy says, the next line in another repeated prayer, voice raspy, and that right there, that hurt is Connor's and something sparks inside his gut. But instead of pushing upwards, Murphy turns the game on its head again. Tilts his head back a little bit, and opens his mouth. It's a blatant invitation, a little terrifying at the same time as the sight makes Connor's cock jump. He can see the sharp points of Murphy's teeth as much as he can see his mouth. Murphy's got one arm free, just enough to pillow his head on, tilt it just a little more, and the little fucker is laughing. "Come on," he says. "Choke me on something else."

If Connor had any self control left, that would have broken it, and he's not even sure how this will work, but he knows he's willing to give it a try. Scrabbles his way up, instinctively leaning his weight to one side. Gets one hand in Murphy's hair, not enough of it to really get a proper grasp, and that does nothing at all to wipe the smile off his face, until Connor smears the head of his cock against his mouth, and Murphy's too busy lunging for it to smile anymore. There's no semblance of a fight anymore. Connor's got his cock in, shallow little thrusts, can feel Murphy swallowing around him as best as he can, hand slipping out from behind his head to pull Connor forward until he has to brace himself with his hands. There's just enough of an angle now, just enough that he can press in deeper, hesitating for a second until Murphy pulls him a little closer and he practically feels himself slide in.

Murphy's choking—not in earnest, Connor would know that sound—but just a little. There’s no control over his throat like this, and the bolt of lust that strikes is so strong, Connor can only rock in further, pulling out just a little before he's pushing back in, one hand still in Murphy's hair, strand of it wound round his fingers and just enough to pull if he wanted. 

Connor’s knee makes it difficult to get any proper traction, but this is enough; the hoarse sounds that Murphy’s making, the way he’s got his hands on Connor’s ass now, pulling him in closer, fingers slipping between his cheeks, catching and holding on still-damp skin, just enough steel in his touch that Connor remembers Murphy’s teeth all over again. 

Connor can see the wetness at the corner of Murphy’s mouth, disengages his hand from Murphy’s hair just long enough to thumb it away and rub a hand over his cheek, feeling for the hollowed out shape of his mouth, the strength of his jaw. Slips down just a little lower, rubs over the stretch of Murphy’s neck, like he’d be able to feel his cock through the skin. His hand fits around the exposed adam’s apple, and as he’s fucking forward awkwardly, it all melds together, his cock down Murphy’s throat, his hand around Murphy’s neck and everything leads here. Somewhere along the line he’s closed his eyes, he’s alone in the world, just him and Murphy and the coldness of the floor under his knees.

Murphy’s rubbing two fingers alongside Connor’s dick as he pulls out for a second, keeps them in his mouth as Connor pushes back in, the ridge of them tantalizing against his cock, mouth too full now to even moan around him, before he pulls them out and let's Connor slip back in and down.

He can feel Murphy’s fingers, slippery now with spit, pushing between his cheeks, pressing deep into his ass, and the night air is sharp in his throat as he gulps in air, hot and cold at once; Murphy’s warm mouth on his dick, his fingers twisting hot and sharp inside him, and the rest of him shaking. He pushes back a little bit, then forward, caught between the two sensations, feels Murphy relax even more under his touch, pulls back enough to push into his mouth again, jamming himself onto Murphy's iron fingers at the same time. He's held between the two, the pit in his stomach gaping wider and emptier as he rocks back and forth, his body indecisive, until Murphy solves the problem for him, pulls him back with a hand around his hip, fingers digging in until it feels like he's going to tear under their touch, skin pulled too taut and thin.

Murphy's coughing under him, battered and empty, gasping for air, eyes wild. "Come on," he says, voice almost unrecognisable now, thin and worn. "Chickenshit," and that's just about enough for Connor. He comes pretty much like that, sandwiched between Murphy's fingers and the lingering sensation of Murphy's mouth leaning forward just enough to suck the head of his cock this time. Connor more or less collapses over Murphy, just enough cognisance to not crush him entirely. He could stay there for forever, or what counts for it, but Murphy's already moving, biting at pretty much anything he can reach, the meat of Connor's thigh mostly, but Connor knows what he'll aim for next.

He's expecting the roll when it comes, the sudden upending of the world and Murphy's face on top of him, framed against a cracked ceiling. "Connor," he's saying, earnestly. "You're a selfish prick, you know that."

"Yeah, yeah," he says, "I won dickhead, what did you expect?"

What Murphy expects is evident, hot against him, and Connor can't resist, curls a lazy hand around him and watches Murphy surge forward. "Christ," Murphy's saying, low and garbled. "Christ, you're an asshole, and I'm going to fuck you like one," nonsense gibberish that probably makes sense in Murphy's head.

"Sure," Connor says, hitches a hurting knee a little bit more open, welcomes Murphy closer. "Maybe later," and there's only a touch of a taunt in it. Murphy's driving forward into his hand now, shaking from shoulder to thigh, hot and ready enough to go off in his hand just like this, just from sucking Connor down, and if he were any less lazy, Connor'd get good mileage out of it. As it is, he lets Murphy bite him, down his neck, on his chest, as he jerks him off to a stuttering finish all over Connor's skin, and they're going to regret that in about thirty seconds. Murphy slumps down on top of him, glued together by exhaustion and sweat, and Connor readjusts his grip, brings Murphy down a little more towards his heart. The floor is as good a place as any to land after all.

"When we are rich," Connor begins, almost inaudible, but he knows Murphy can hear him. "We'll be able to afford a fucking double bed."

**Author's Note:**

> Comments always appreciated.


End file.
